


Come Now John

by Edana_erised (Myriad_13)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Fluff, M/M, Mini case fic, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 13:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myriad_13/pseuds/Edana_erised
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three contexts in which Sherlock says three words: Come now John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Now John

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing anything for the BBC Sherlock fandom. I'd love some feedback. Also because I haven't written homosexual sex since Transformers five years ago *blush*. This is also not Beta-read or Brit-picked. 
> 
> On with the fic!

It was usually said in a derisive tone. At a crime scene or poking about someone’s belongings in their place of residence (we seem to encounter a great deal of doors left open, Lestrade), when Sherlock found what John said silly, or obvious. When the great detective expected a great deal more from him than what he gave.

“Come now, John. It should be fairly obvious. It was staged. Mrs. Bowley was never kidnapped. She faked it!” Sherlock revealed with a gleam in his eye, all the answers held in by sheer self control.

“How?” asked John, his voice tapering off with a sigh. He usually got it, but this time... “Scratches on the walls, flecks of blood in the same sort of patterns you’d see when someone got punched, stuff knocked over, and the door kicked in. I don’t see it.”

“Neither do I,” Lestrade injected from his post at the front door, flipping through his notes pointedly.

With the faintest roll of his eyes, Sherlock rattled off his usual spiel, laying out the links formed in his brain verbally through his deductions. “The evidence you saw is all well and good, but can be easily planted by a crafty mind. Ask yourself this. What kidnapping victim is able to collect their keys, mobile phone, and bag before leaving? There’s evidence of false entry in the door, but no marks from Mrs. Bowley’s fingernails on the inside which would have made sense if she was putting up a struggle. She would have reached out to the door jamb if she was being dragged out. In the bathroom, her toiletries are missing. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, toothbrush and paste, no makeup left – you can tell she had a large amount based on the powdery residues left around the taps.” The consulting detective jabbed enthusiastically towards a portrait of Mrs. Bowley, smiling toothily from behind the frame, her perfectly made up features flawless. “A woman like that, if kidnapped, would have left them behind. She wouldn’t have time. If she chose to leave, which is obviously what has occurred, toiletries and make up are the first things on her mind.”

“Hang on,” Lestrade interrupted. Sherlock merely brushed him off with a wave of his hand and continued.

“On our way through the halls to reach this apartment, there were no signs of struggle. None. Especially in contrast to what is in this room. Additionally, there are no imprints of shoes other than a size six, from the slenderness, a woman’s. Mrs. Bowley wears the same size shoe. Lestrade, did anyone hear screaming, anything, indicating a woman was kidnapped?”

“No, but the kidnapper could have gagged her or something. Drugged her,” the seasoned DI pointed out. John looked to Sherlock to see how the man could dispute this.

“I can’t smell any typical drugging agents in the air. And in a building like this? The walls between each flat are thin. Someone would have heard something,” Sherlock pressed bitingly. “The correct conclusion is that Mrs. Bowley planted this evidence and left here on her own free will. 

“Why?” John ventured.

Sherlock gave John a long suffering look. But he indulged his friend’s curiosity, knowing John cared about the _whys_ of a case. “Most likely running away with someone she was having an affair with. They were careful not to leave evidence of it in this flat, but I did notice that there was a pair of mens shorts, too small to be Mr. Bowley’s judging from the rest of the trousers hanging up in the wardrobe, shoved behind the bureau. They were hidden for a reason. Conclusion? Mrs. Bowley has a lover and is currently somewhere in the countryside with him,” he finished with a certain relish, tipping his head towards his flatmate expectantly.

John kept his chuckle to himself and breathed, “Brilliant. As usual you arrogant sod.”

Lestrade just rolled his eyes.

//--//

Other times it was said in excitement.

“Come now John!” Sherlock barked as he whirled into the sitting room, disturbing John from his peaceful breakfast. “I have it! I have a lead!”

“Have fun,” John murmured disinterestedly, attempting to refocus on the article about the upcoming St. Patrick’s day festivities in Ireland. He was tired. The previous day he had not only completed a 12 hour shift at the medical office, but run around the West End with Sherlock trying to recreate the path a victim took home from a vegan restaurant – it had been research for their latest case from Lestrade. It had been fruitless and so they had returned to the flat at 2am that morning.

Evidently, marinating what they had collected with their senses in his brain for the past few hours had led Sherlock in a new direction.

Sherlock paused, the stillness in stark contrast to his enthused motions that John glanced up from the article once more. “What?” he asked.

“You don’t want to come with me?”

John felt his heart thud heavily at the kicked puppy expression on Sherlock’s face. He had to remind himself not to give in. He was exhausted, really, and just because his mad, brilliant flatmate decided to give him such a look… 

“Not that I don’t want to-“ he began, but the words got caught in his throat. Sherlock had upped the ante, pouting, his icy blue eyes widening comically. It was so disturbing and so goddamned cute  that John was reminded of the times that Sherlock _hadn’t_ included him, and now the man was requesting that he tag along…

“On one condition, no! Two conditions,” the doctor said sternly. He saw the shine of glee and smug satisfaction pass over the detective’s face briefly before it was smoothed into a neutral mask. He catalogued that. This would _not_ be a victory for Sherlock.

“Yes?”

“You must not only get milk on the way home whenever we’re done from where you’re dragging me, but you have to tidy the kitchen. And I mean white glove test spotless,” John said, his voice dipping into his ‘Captain Watson’ tone. He wasn’t oblivious to how Sherlock’s mouth twitched minutely whenever he used that particular quality of voice.

Delving into why Sherlock reacted like that was another matter entirely.

Sherlock’s expression morphed again. He was put out by the request, but he nodded anyway, impatiently grabbing John’s coat from the hook and throwing it at the shorter man and thundering down the worn stairs.

“Come now John! The game is on!” he crowed from the bottom of the stairwell. John hid a smirk. Sherlock must be really impatient if he had to repeat himself.

//--//

And it was times like now, when the world had faded away and it was just the two of them, that John relished this particular set of words flowing – slurred and thick and heavy with desire – from Sherlock’s plump, kiss-chapped lips.

“Come…now…John….”

John looked up into that pale face flushed with the exertion of sex, marvelling at just how lucky he was.

It had taken a while, but they had got their act together and had fallen into the most meaningful relationship they had ever been in. Now, here they were, a month into being partners/lovers/ _more_ and he was still learning about the wonders of that lithe, beautiful frame, the so often ignored transport of the man he adored. The man who was straddling him, palms pressed into his pectorals, taking his length within his body eagerly. His breath came out in long, shaky pants, and every time his body rocked, the tip of his own cock bounced gently against his stomach.

“I want to make this last,” John murmured, groaning with the effort to not just explode. His hands held Sherlock’s hips firmly – he didn’t want the pace to quicken, he liked this semi-lazy rocking of their hips, the way Sherlock clenched around his shaft tightly – and he stroked over that smooth skin reassuringly. “Shh…just savour it.”

“Please,” gasped Sherlock as John brushed over his prostate, causing him to shudder and writhe, nails digging into his lovers chest. Fresh sweat broke over his brow, and John’s fingers reached out to collect it, bring it to his mouth and taste (salt, and Sherlock…mmm).

Their eyes met – John’s full of tenderness and amazement, Sherlock’s full of desperation and trust – as they settled into an easier rhythm, not so much thrusting as shifting, rocking. Their hands trailed over each other, building the pleasure between them. The smell of sex and heat rose and cloaked the room, serving only to draw the two men closer to orgasm. Finally, John decided to assist his lover to release and wrapped his hand along the neglected length jutting upwards from the thatch of dark hair at Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock released a low, needy moan, falling forward so that he could ravage John with kisses as their pace quickened. John drove his hips up with intent, wanting to see the taller man completely fall apart…

Sherlock came with a vulnerable cry, his eyes wide and jaw slack from the bolts of sensation thrumming through his body. John followed moments later, calling out his name and face screwed up as he, too, succumbed to climax.

It took a few minutes before their rapid breathing slowed just enough, that awareness came back enough so they could put themselves to rights. With a happy sigh, the brunette shifted himself off John and curled up at his side. “Mmm…good?” Sherlock muttered drowsily. It was a side effect of sex that Sherlock’s mind ran at half speed just for a half hour or so, drowned in the endorphins rushing through his blood. It made John’s heart ache with just how much Sherlock trusted him in these moments. “Very good,” he returned easily, pressing a kiss to that sweat damped, curly mop of hair resting at his shoulder.

“Although…” Sherlock let the words peter out with a tint of mischievousness, “When I request for you to join me in orgasm, I’d like us to do so promptly. While that was very mind-blowing-“

“Sherlock?”

"Mmm?”

“Shut up,” John said, carding his hands through the dark curls fondly.

“Make me,” challenged Sherlock.

So John rolled over with a laugh and sealed his lips over Sherlock’s. There wasn’t much talking after that. 


End file.
